I, Morgana (15 page)

If Merlin refers to the pack of decorated wooden tablets, he is right. And yet they seemed to fly so easily into my hand while I was searching his lair that I was quite sure I was meant to have them and that they were part of my destiny.

“Why are you here, Nimue? What do you want from me?” His voice sounds harsh. Unforgiving. I am afraid that I have missed my chance, and I set myself to woo him, to assuage his dark imaginings.

“I came to ask if you would teach me, Merlin,” I say humbly. He raises his fist and brandishes the firestick at me. I take a hurried step backward. “Yes, I am with child but I am still anxious to be your pupil, if you will have me.”

“I will not,” he growls. “I teach only the very few who are worthy, those who are high-born enough to make a difference to those they rule and who I know will use the magical arts wisely in their service. And you fail on all counts, Nimue.”

I cannot give up, nor can I show my disappointment. “Then, if you cannot teach me, Merlin, may I at least stay here with you for a time? Perhaps I can help you?”

“I doubt there is much you can do to help me, lady, unless you think to trick me into helping
you
. And that I will not do.” He sinks down onto his seat, and turns his face away from me.

He knows who I am! I am sure of it. But I can’t resist testing him. “Where is Morgana now, Merlin?”

There is a raucous squawk from the owl. I jump, wondering for one insane moment if I have been transformed by Merlin. I pinch my hand, just to make sure I am still Nimue, and am relieved to touch skin rather than feathers. The old man chuckles, his good humor apparently restored. He leans forward and sniffs the air. “She is everywhere,” he murmurs.

There is no more time. I have to act. And so, before Merlin can stop me, I shoo away the creatures that sit around him. I clap my hands together hard to dislodge the owl, and catch its beak in a glancing blow. It fluffs up its feathers in protest but doesn’t budge. No matter, I think. He can keep the owl for company.

“By what right do you dare chase away my companions!” Merlin struggles to his feet, his joints creaking in protest. Living rough and with not enough food has taken its toll. I feel a momentary pity for the once great mage.

“You have a new companion to take their place, Merlin. I am here to do your bidding. But I don’t understand why you live alone out here in such rough conditions? Surely there is a place for you at Arthur’s court?”

“Not since he wed Guenevere.” The old man’s voice is bitter. “Arthur and his men follow the new way of Christ but there was also room for the old ways until Guenevere came along. She distrusts anything she doesn’t understand, or that the priests can’t explain to her. Although I offered to show her something of my magical arts, she took fright and banished me from Camelot. And so I found a refuge out here in the forest. The king still visits me from time to time, but no one else knows where I live. Which leads me to wonder how you managed to find me, Nimue?”

I berate myself for not anticipating the question. “I … I followed my instincts, Merlin.” It is the best answer I can come up with. Not giving him a chance to question me further, I ask, “May I see inside your cave?”

“So that you can pry into all my secrets?” The old man might look frail but he hasn’t lost his wits, or his sharp tongue.

I give a carefree laugh. “Not at all. I thought to start helping you by making things tidy. And I can prepare a meal for you. See, I have brought a basket of food with me. A ham, some smoked fish and a pot of honey. Bread. And fruit.”

The old man licks his lips. His stomach growls in anticipation. I hand over the basket and he grabs it with greedy urgency. He pushes ahead of me to take it inside, hunger driving his footsteps. I linger, waiting until he is safely across the threshold, and then I begin to utter aloud the spell of binding, a spell that will seal the cave and keep Merlin locked within it forever.

I hear his roar of rage from within, and know that he has recognized the words I am chanting. And so he should, for they come from his own book, the one I stole from his cave so long ago.

Before I have time to finish the chant I hear the sound of rushing wings. Luck—or instinct—makes me turn aside. A hard beak strikes my head; sharp talons rake my neck. I should have known Merlin would use all the magic at his command to avoid my binding spell, and I curse my stupidity for not anticipating this attack. I snatch up the firestick and swipe it at Merlin’s owl, but I am unable to dodge its lacerating beak and claws. I beat the air again and again until, finally, a lucky strike connects and the owl falls limp to the ground.

The owl’s attack has given Merlin the time he needs to defend himself. I hear the cry of a mighty eagle as it swoops down from the branches of a nearby tree. I swiftly utter the spell of transformation and fly into its path, talons outstretched, with buffeting wings and a sharp beak designed to tear and kill. We fight viciously and in silence, Merlin and I, while the ground below becomes spattered with gore. I swerve and drop to avoid a raking claw; it would have blinded me if I had not escaped in time. I retaliate with an upward thrust at his feathery belly, and taste his blood on my beak.

Finally I sense that Merlin is weakening. I gather all my strength for one last savage attack, drawing blood and feathers both, until at last my adversary drops. Down I swoop, picking up the limp body with my talons and dropping it into the cave. The eagle is still breathing, but I don’t stop to see if it will live or die, nor do I wait to see if Merlin still has the power to transform himself once more. I am eager to complete the spell that will seal him inside the cave forever.

My task done, I assume the guise of Nimue and take a few steps back to assess my handiwork. I cannot see the barrier and so I approach the mouth of the cave for I fear that something has gone wrong with my spell. Even now I don’t trust Merlin to stay where he is, for he has shown me that he still has a few magical arts to call on. I try to step into the cave, and discover that the spell has worked. The seal is in place but it is transparent, made of fine crystal. Using Merlin’s own wand of oak, the strongest spellbinder of them all, I utter the incantation that will keep the seal fastened through eternity.

The cave begins to shimmer with light and slowly disappears in a shower of sparkles, until there is no sign of it, nor of Merlin. I close my eyes, exhausted from my magic-making and sickened by the unexpected battle that has left so many painful marks upon my human body. But I feel also a great sense of release. I vowed to punish Merlin, to have my revenge on him, and I have kept my vow. At last he understands the consequences of his action in handing the kingdom to Arthur and not to me. And he will regret it for all time.

My satisfaction over Merlin’s defeat lasts until I arrive back at Camelot, having taken shelter along the journey to clean and heal my wounds. The talons and beaks of the owl and the eagle have left deep lacerations on my body and I require all my craft and care to heal them. The delay gives me time to compose myself. Although I am pleased that I’ve kept my word to repay Merlin for robbing me of my rightful heritage, going into a battle unto death with my once loved and revered mentor has upset me far more than I expected.

I know that further trials await me once I am in Camelot, and as I enter the gates I steel myself to meet the first of them: the return of Launcelot. But I discover that he has still not arrived, and I wonder at the delay. I cannot say anything but I am anxious. Has he fallen into the hands of brigands; is he even now lying in a field somewhere, with his throat cut and ravens feasting on his blood, his eyes, and on the mouth that kissed me? I shudder, and press my hand over my stomach, seeking some small comfort from the child within.

With an effort, I turn my fevered imagination to something far more likely—that he has been diverted by the sorts of adventures he seems to enjoy: rescuing damsels and defeating dragons and slicing off the heads of those he perceives as his enemies.

Several new knights have joined Arthur’s court and I am astounded to recognize three of them, although they are now full grown into manhood. It is all I can do not to fall on them with hugs and kisses, and beg them for news of my son. Fortunately I remember in time that I am no longer their aunt Morgana. I smile in welcome as they introduce themselves, and question them as delicately as possible so that they will not find out where my true interest lies.

Gawain is the eldest, and he is the one to whom I turn with my questions. But I soon discover that, while he is considered a lion in battle, he is something of a mouse around women. A few monosyllabic answers establish what I already know: that they are the sons of King Lot and Queen Morgause of Lothian and the Orkney Isles. Thereafter I address Gawain’s brothers, Gaheris and Agravaine, hoping they will give me the news I long to hear.

“Are there just the three of you or do you have other brothers who will come to grace the king’s court?”

“Gareth is our youngest brother; he is still too young to come to Camelot.” Gaheris is the most handsome of the brothers, but there is an air of wildness about him that I mistrust. He does not look at me as we converse; instead his gaze flickers like lightning around the room.

“So there are just the four of you?” I hope he will take the hint. But it is Agravaine who answers.

“We have a young foster brother, Mordred. His mother abandoned him, so he has made his home with us. Fortunately for him, my mother dotes on him as he dotes on her, but I suppose he will come to court too. Eventually.”

“Mordred?” I echo faintly, feeling a rush of dread as I come to understand the sentiments underlying Agravaine’s words. “And … and is he well? Mordred?”

“He’s very well,” Agravaine answers. He is shorter than the others, while his girth and his cheerful demeanor betray his enjoyment of the good life. It is clear that he also relishes passing on scandalous stories. And so I turn my attention to him alone.

“Is he happy? Does he miss his mother?” All the brothers look at me strangely. “It’s … it’s hard to grow up not knowing a mother’s love,” I add hastily. “I suppose he dotes on your father too?”

“Our father is dead,” Gawain says bluntly. “He was killed by Sir Pellinore.”

“But—why?” I feel a twinge of sympathy for my sister, quickly dispelled as I remember the state of her marriage.

Gawain shrugs and glances sideways at the tilting yard. “We’re needed for practice at the quintain,” he mutters, and hurries away.

Agravaine lingers. I look at him, thinking that perhaps his wagging tongue is his greatest weapon as well as the source of his greatest pleasure. I suspect he uses it both to demolish people’s reputations and to relish his food, for I am quite sure that he prefers a seat at the dining table to a seat on a horse.

“Pellinore was an irascible fool and always too quick with a sword,” he tells me. “The knight was ever after the Questing Beast, and in his anger at his constant failure to find and dispatch it, he tended to seek a quarrel with any he might happen upon. In this case, there was a melee. Pellinore struck our father’s horse in the neck. It went down, taking our father with it. And while my father was down, that mangy cur killed him. But we have sworn to take our revenge when next he crosses our path.”

I am silent for a few moments as I contemplate the ways of men. For them, revenge and satisfaction lie at the point of a sword.

“Would you like to come and watch us at the quintain, Nimue?” Gaheris interrupts my thoughts. For once he is looking directly at me; I read the hot lust in his eyes, and I quickly excuse myself.

As I watch him strut away, followed by a reluctant Agravaine, I mull over what I have been told. I am happy to hear that Morgause dotes on Mordred, it means she is taking good care of him. But surely he cannot have forgotten me so soon? I do a hasty calculation, and am appalled to discover just how long, in fact, I have been away from my child. Almost four years!

I reassure myself that just a few more weeks won’t change anything, and settle back in the castle, at Arthur’s invitation, to wait for Launcelot’s return to court. I need to be sure that I no longer love Launcelot; that his betrayal, his treachery, has killed my love forever. And yet a sweet heat runs through my body at the very thought of him. He must arrive soon. I have to see him one last time.

But here my thoughts tend to leap and skitter like crickets. I have a trick to play on Launcelot. And Guenevere. A trick that will affect the fate of Camelot. I just don’t know if I have the courage or the will to carry it through.

To my dismay, I learn that Guenevere and Arthur have not given up on their plans for me—that is, for Morgana—when I happen upon them in the garden and hear them talking.

“If what Nimue says is the truth, I must send for Morgana,” Arthur says, as they come to a discreet bower and sit down on a turf bench.

Curious, I wait until they are settled and then creep closer to listen.

“She needs to be here while Launcelot conducts his investigation. I am sure Nimue tells the truth as she knows it, but Morgana should also be present to defend her good name.”

“Surely we should rather listen to the Lady of Avalon’s advice? Whether it can be proved or not, she believes Morgana is behind Accolon’s attack on you.” I clench my fists as I listen to Guenevere’s girlish, venomous voice as she continues. “You tell me your sister has knowledge of magic, and that makes her dangerous—to you, to me, and potentially to all our court. Besides, she’s also disruptive. You know she tries to attract the attention of your knights—and of any man who crosses her path. Look how she poisoned Accolon’s mind against you. Please don’t send for her, Arthur. We don’t want her here.”

“It will only be for a short time, my darling.” Arthur sounds triumphant. “When I last consulted Merlin, his advice was for me to arrange a marriage for her that will take her to the furthest part of our kingdom. I spoke to Morgana some time ago about your suggestion of granting her a castle of her own, and arranging a marriage between her and Urien of Rheged. At the time she rejected the notion out of hand, but I am convinced now that this is the best, the only solution to our concerns, and so I shall insist on it. She will see the sense of my suggestion, I feel sure of it. And it will be good for her to have a husband and his household to take care of; it will give her something to do.”

Guenevere claps her hands in appreciation. “Rheged is a thousand days’ ride from here,” she observes, with such deep pleasure that I want to smack her.

“Not quite as far as that, my love.” Arthur smiles indulgently. “But far enough to keep her from troubling the court while, at the same time, I shall make sure that the old man sees it as a gesture of my good faith and patronage, as well as my trust in my sister’s innocence in this matter of Accolon’s attack, and his consequent death. If Morgana is as penitent as Nimue says she is, she will do as I say.”

Crouched behind the hedge of thorny roses, I seethe with bitterness. I cannot leave my hiding place without Arthur and Guenevere seeing me, so I must wait. But their words lead to kissing, and then to other matters. I close my ears to the sound of their loving, and mull over what I have heard. After the first shock wears off, I have to admit to a grudging admiration. I had not suspected Arthur capable of such craft in matters of state. But Urien! My whole being revolts at the thought of living with him as his wife. Bedding with him. Sharing with him all that I shared with Launcelot, which once was a delight but with Urien will become a penance.

And yet. My fingers touch my belly. I gently stroke the small bump. The baby is growing, and I need a father for it most urgently.

Urien is old, so old that perhaps he can be beguiled into believing the child is his. He is certainly too old to try to tame me. Could Arthur unknowingly have devised both my escape, and also my salvation? Rheged is nothing like a thousand days’ ride away, but it is far enough that I may stay there in safety, with Mordred and the baby, after my task here is done. I can shelter there until I am summoned to assume my rightful place as head of the realm and savior of the kingdom.

The long days of waiting were broken by an unexpected adventure that quickly became the talk of the court. While Arthur and his knights were out hunting, they encountered a giant—or so the credulous would have you believe, although it seems to me that the warrior only grew in height to appease Arthur’s wounded pride at being bested in combat. The giant told Arthur he would only spare his life if he could find the answer to the question, “What is it that women most desire?” and bring it back to him within a week.

Arthur came home to interrogate the court, and received a variety of answers: gold, jewels, a handsome lover, a good husband, wealth and status. I could have told him the true answer but I did not, for I doubted he would believe its simplicity. Besides, I was intrigued to see how it all played out; it was my hope that, all being well, the giant might carry out his threat without my having to do anything further to bring about Arthur’s death.

Finally, and as requested, Arthur took all the answers he’d heard back to the giant. Along the way he encountered a loathly lady. Reports as to her extreme ugliness vary, but all were agreed that the poor dame was bent and hideous, that she had but one eye and only a slit for a mouth, and that her hair was gray and bedraggled. But she claimed to know the true answer to the giant’s riddle, which she would only tell Arthur in exchange for a boon. And he, without asking any further questions, agreed to it. And so she whispered in his ear and he told the giant, who roared with rage but was forced to spare Arthur’s life because the answer was correct.

You would think the ninny might have shared this wisdom with the others in his party, but he did not. Instead, he returned to the old hag and agreed to carry out whatever she might ask—and what she wanted was for a young and handsome knight from Arthur’s court to marry her! Arthur returned to court in a great bother, and finally Gawain, fool that he is, put himself forward—or was pushed into it—when no one else would agree to the crone’s request.

We all witness Gawain’s return to Camelot with his poor, deformed bride-to-be riding in front of him. Everyone at court falls silent; all are embarrassed by her appearance, for surely no woman should suffer such deformity and live. Everyone pities Gawain to the depths of their souls. Everyone except me, for when I gaze at the poor wretch I suspect there is some magic afoot, and I wonder at it.

Guenevere, to her credit, and perhaps because of the debt Arthur owes Gawain, makes much of the creature, whose name is Dame Ragnell. She takes her away to bathe in scented water, and arrays her in a costly gown, one of Guenevere’s own, but nothing can conceal the dame’s loathsome appearance.

I wonder even more about magic after we break our fast the following morning. I expect Gawain to appear gaunt and haggard after sharing his bride’s bed, and yet his eyes are bright and there is a spring in his step, although his bride is as ugly and deformed as ever. Indeed Gawain appears so much more lively and mirthful than usual that I cannot help but take him aside to question him in the hope of satisfying my curiosity.

It is a strange story. He tells me that, utterly cast down and unable to face his bride, he sat staring at the fire burning in their room while wondering how he was going to endure the night.

“She spoke to me then,” Gawain says. “She asked if I could not bear to look on her face—and when I did, I beheld such loveliness that I was struck dumb with it! I swear, Nimue, she is more beautiful even than the queen! But I could weep at what has happened to her, for she says that she and her brother, the giant encountered by Arthur, have had an enchantment put on them by an evil lord. She says that she is doomed to be fair for one half of the day, and hideous for the other, and that only I can free her of the spell—but I need to choose the right answer to be successful.”

“The right answer to what?”

“I cannot say, for she did not tell me the riddle. But she has asked if I would prefer her to be beautiful by day—when all will see that I have a beautiful bride—or by night, when I may have joy of her. When I asked for her beauty at night, she wept most bitterly for she knows she is an object of scorn and loathing to others; she says she would prefer to appear beautiful before them. But if I grant her wish, I shall have no joy of her at night, while knowing that other knights at court will lust after her by day, and try to win her affection. What then if she should decide she prefers another to me?” Gawain looks wretched at the very thought of it. “I’ve never been much use around women, Nimue, but I would be loath to lose my wife to another having seen how comely she is, and how sweet her nature.”